The Collapse of a Titan
by Dwimor Bispell
Summary: A brief look into the final moments of a Colossus. Rated K for mild violence and blood


_AUTHOR'S NOTE_

For every Shadow of the Colossus fan who ever considered the moral implications of murdering the Colossi (long before you found out what it would ultimately cost you), this short story is for you!

The tale itself is exceedingly brief, as I felt it's narrative style didn't lend itself to anything on the lengthy side (not to mention that I possess the attention span of panda in a jam jar), but I hope you find it enjoyable, effective and, with any luck, in some way provocative and thoughtful. One of the key reasons I loved Shadow of the Colossus quite so much was the emotional energy you were required to invest in the story and it's characters, and this tale springs out of the pangs of guilt I suffered after I sent yet another of the Colossi tumbling to their deaths.

Anyhoo, enjoy it dear FanFic writers and readers, and remember that any and all reviews are welcome! (Oh, and a gold star to the person who can guess which Colossus I've selected here.)

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**THE COLLAPSE OF A TITAN**

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The Creature thinks so many things as It descends.

As Its strength and Its will rise up out from Its body, high into the air in a hot, blackened mist of blood and gore, the Creature thinks a time before this. It thinks on the slow stride through the tickling green of leaves and the scratching brown of bark on Its high, pointed legs, and how It has lumbered and trotted with undisturbed leisure through It's realm for time upon time now. The Creature thinks of the white birds taking flight from their perches in the trees as It shook off the last hazy clouds of sleep upon waking, and the valley rumbled from Its first movements of the day. How this day, as the Creature awoke from a deep and quiet slumber to the sharp light of day, It found Something else under Its stamping hoof.

Something running.

As it rears Its colossal head back one final time, knowing It will never succeed in shaking him off now, and Its limbs tremble and the ground rumbles in anticipation of the impending contact beneath, the Creature thinks of stretching It's stone neck and raising itself upon those long hard back legs, simply to tower above all else in Its world. Rising high above the cool and bright glade It knows as its domain to reach that tree, discovered some time ago upon a tall pinnacle, its branches bent downwards from the weight of the delicious fruit it yielded in such abundance. But more than that It thinks on the cool lap of the water against the stone mouth when it bent that neck low to the ground, and the purity of the flavour. The Creature thinks how It will miss those tastes most dearly; It wonders if that Something else will ever taste it too.

Something shouting.

As It feels the soft security of Its sculpted pelt fall slack and loose from the coat of fur, as It's life force ebbs away and its grip upon those stone coats of safety and comfort slips away with it, It thinks on the warmth of Its pelt in the days when chill winds blew through the forest and nipped with frosted tooth and claw, crawling across it's hide, speaking in the cruel howling tongue of the gale, seeking a weak point in the warm protection of the marble pelt. It wonders if that cruel wind had sent that Something to finish the search the wind itself could not succeed in.

Something crawling.

As It stumbles, blind from the opaque slickness of the black blood that clings to Its widened eyes that will never see again, and the trees far below shake and the hooves pound against the crashing, churning soil, the Creature thinks on when It once left the world known for so long as home. What wonderous beauty there was in the rolling hills and the cascading waters, the monolithic mountain ranges and the curious stone towers, the horizon-long plains and deep, yawning canyons. The Creature recalls the wonder of all those sights and sounds and smells in those strange and unfamiliar places, and It remembers well the jolting terror of putting a hoof wrong and almost tumbling headlong into a ravine far north from here; remembers the sweeping relief that filled It as Its back legs caught and held firm in the earth, and the happiness that followed when the ground so far below had not rushed up in horrible greeting. It remembers the anxious caution that turned It about to stride slowly for home, for safety, for security. For peace. Had the Something been to those lands as well, before it had come so abruptly into the Creature's realm?

Something biting.

But in the end, as It's massive form, mightier than anything else that moves upon legs in this beautiful land, topples to lifelessness upon the ground with an earth-shattering, thunderous smash of bark and rock and earth and stone, with the Something leaping from It's head to safety, it is none of these thoughts and memories and moments in life that the Creature's mind ponders upon before thought fades from It's dead mind.

Something else entirely.

It thinks upon the small Something it saw far below when it awoke this bright and cold morning, the Something that raced upon the ground, and how when it bent low to examine this new curiosity It suddenly felt the Something's clutch upon It's jaw. The brief glance the Creature had of the two-legged, pale-skinned Something as it leapt fearlessly past It's eye to the top of It's skull. The tickling patter of feet above. The biting, wrenching, tearing, agonising strike of the Something's shining silver sting, ripping the flesh, piercing the skull, penetrating It's mind, and the violent spurt of the Creature's own blood into the sky.

In the end, and in death, the Creature thinks upon only one more thing. It thinks of the pain in the Something's eyes. The lonely agony It has never seen in all Its innocent time in the world, an agony speaking of torture in the heart, of endless nights ahead where the Something, taking no comfort or refuge in the bounty of the world around him, grieves for some terrible loss. It hopes the Something will be spared that pain in the end. It cannot think to bear ill will. That is not in this gentle giant's nature.

And gently is how that behemoth shall sleep, forevermore, in the place called the Forbidden Land.

The Creature, known to all else as one of the Great Colossi, dies in the glade it has called It's home for generation after generation. And the Something, whose true name of Wander the Creature never knows, shall find no solace in what he has done for the restoration of his beloved to life and love, but will only feel one more terrible agony of conscience for that death as for all the others that have marked and stained his soul in black, hot blood.

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R.I.P.

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_'What deep wounds ever closed without a scar?_' - **George Gordon; Lord Byron, Child Harold's Pilgrimage**

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_(I own none of the characters and trademarks of Shadow of the Colossus, the intellectual property of which belongs to Sony Entertainment.)_


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